


From Here to the Door

by track_04



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Extra Treat, Gen, ToT: Monster Mash, Trick or Treat: Trick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 08:59:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12553892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/track_04/pseuds/track_04
Summary: She has no name and she's in a room she's never seen before; everything that she is and used to be aches, but at least she knows that she's not dead.





	From Here to the Door

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kay_obsessive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_obsessive/gifts).



She's not dead.

She's on her hands and knees on the floor of an unfamiliar room, her fingertips white where they press against the non-descript, colorless flooring. Something inside of her feels wrong, like someone yanked her soul out through her chest, leaving something empty and unrecognizable in its place. 

She reaches for the scraps it left behind: memories of her family and friends, a line from her favorite song, the exact shade of red that her sister liked to paint her toenails, the slightly burnt taste of the coffee she used to buy from the cafe on her way to work.

She remembers her parents, her favorite primary school teacher, her best friend when she was five. She remembers the Institute when she thinks long and hard enough, remembers Jon and Martin and Tim. She remembers the sound of worms moving across stone and the holes in Prentiss's flesh, the click of a tape recorder and dark wood covered in intricately patterned lines.

The one thing that she can't seem to remember is her name. She knows that she had one not so long ago, something that her mother used to call her home in the evening, a collection of sounds that people she knew used to say with affection, but no matter how hard or long she searches inside herself, she can't find it.

She has no name and she's in a room she's never seen before; everything that she is and used to be aches, but at least she knows that she's not dead. 

\--

The room is blank and empty. Sometimes it seems to stretch on forever, and others she can feel the walls closing in around her. She spends most of her time searching the walls for openings and screaming for help until her throat feels raw and bloodied.

The walls and floors are flawless, no cracks or weak spots for her fingers to find purchase. She tries anyway, scratches at the corners of the room with ragged fingernails and leaves behind streaks of blood that disappear the moment she looks away from them. 

Her screams are just as useless. The air around her twists any sound she makes, takes her pleas for help and sends them back to her in the form of cruel, echoing laughter. The voice that comes back at her sounds familiar, but she knows it's not her own. Something about it is not quite the same.

\--

It takes her longer than it should to realize she's not alone, but she thinks that the thing standing in the corner might want it that way.

"This is...quaint. Isn't it?" It taps the sharp point of a finger against the wall and takes a breath that sounds a bit backwards.

"Michael." She remembers the name it uses, at least, even if she can't remember her own. She takes a step forward and tries to get a better look at its face, but it's hard to see anything with all the emptiness around them. "Are you here to help me?"

"Goodness, no." Its laughter echoes off the walls. "I simply wanted to see where they put you. A bit unimaginative, I'd say."

"Make me a door out of here," she says and starts to reach for its sleeve, but pulls her hand back before she can make contact. Even after being alone for so long, she can't quite bring herself to touch it. "That's all you have to do."

"I already helped you once." Its face twists enough for her to see the yellow points of its teeth as it smiles. "That's more than most get."

"Please."

It doesn't look sorry, exactly, but it doesn't look quite as gleeful as she thinks it should. "There's no door that I could ever build that would lead you out of here."

She blinks and the room is empty again.

\--

Tim is sitting across from her. He opens his mouth like he's about to ask a question, but stops himself and leans in closer. He says a name and she knows it must be hers, but she can't hold onto it.

"I'm not dead," she says because they're the first words that occur to her. 

Tim looks confused. "I didn't know you were supposed to be." 

"I don't suppose you would have." She looks around the room, tries to spot any differences. If Tim is here, then something must have changed. "How did you get in here?"

"I don't know. I don't even know where _here_ is."

She tells herself she shouldn't be disappointed. "Did Michael send you?"

"Who?"

"Michael. The thing--" she takes in the look on his face and stops, shaking her head. "I guess you wouldn't know even if he had."

He says her name again and she knows it comes out as a question. "It is you, isn't it? I feel like it is, but you're not the you that I see at work everyday. How is that possible?"

"Whatever that thing is that you see at work, it's not me." She stares at Tim, willing him to hold onto this. Even if he doesn't remember anything else, she needs him to remember this. "Can you tell the others? Jon and Martin--maybe even Elias. Tell them I'm not dead."

"I--of course. I can do that." He reaches out and takes her hand, his grip tight as he stares at her face like he's searching for something buried just below her skin. "I'll tell them. About you, about that thing. We'll figure this out."

She squeezes his hand in return and lets them both believe the lie.

The room feels even more empty once he's gone.

\--

Michael never says her name. She wonders, sometimes, if it can even remember, or if whatever magic stole the knowledge from her snatched the knowledge from Michael, too. She's not deluded enough to let herself believe that it would avoid saying it out of any kind of pity.

"I haven't interrupted anything, have I?"

"Did you send him?" She stays seated on the floor and tilts her head back to stare up and up and up at its face, eyes narrowed. "Was that your idea of a joke?"

"I'm not really one for jokes," its mouth says, but the wideness of its smile says otherwise. "You wanted my help, didn't you?"

"How was that helping? Even if he remembers that he was here, how is he going to get me out of here?"

"Surely you know that there are other ways of helping?" It watches her, impassive, the same way that a person would watch an ant crawling across their shoe. She can't decide if it would be better if it just kept observing or if it decided to lift its foot and grind her into the floor.

"Maybe I don't want your help, then."

"Are you certain?" It says, and continues to watch.

\--

Martin says the name that used to be hers differently than Tim. There's a desperation there, a fear that hasn't been crushed beneath the weight of resignation. He looks less shocked than Tim, too, although Martin's tendency toward being wide-eyed does make it a bit hard to tell.

He grabs her hand before she can say anything and hauls her up to stand on feet that she'd almost forgotten existed. He says her name again as he pulls her around the room, free hand reaching out to touch the walls and floors, searching for an exit that doesn't exist.

She remembers this about him, the overwhelming need to help, and it almost makes her smile. "There's no way out, Martin. I've already looked."

"There has to be a way out. If I could get in, then there has to be a way to get out again." 

She pulls her hand free of his and crosses her arms over her chest. The familiarity of the situation--trying to keep her cool while Martin panics--is almost comforting. "And how did you get in here? Do you remember?"

"I just--I mean, I don't exactly remember the specifics, but I'm here, aren't I?" He turns to look at her. "We just need to figure out how to get back out. It shouldn't be hard if we look together."

"...alright, Martin." She doesn't have it in her to argue, so she helps him search for a door she knows doesn't exist, fingers tracing the place where the walls and floor meet over and over again. He keeps talking as they look, babbling about Jon and Tim and all the things happening outside this room that she'd almost forgotten to miss.

She wishes that they were in the Archives's staff room with its kettle and assortment of cheap tea and chipped mugs. She wonders if Martin ever makes tea for the thing pretending to be her, if he gives it that look of genuine concern that he's giving her now.

The silence when he finally leaves seems louder than before, and it takes her a long time to get used to the feeling of being alone again.

\--

Back when she had a name and a face of her own, she used to think that death was something to fear. Even working at the Institute and knowing, in theory, some of the alternatives, she'd still thought death would be one of the worst. Sitting on the floor alone in an eternally empty room, she thinks that she may have been wrong.

"That was less entertaining than I thought it would be."

She doesn't bother to look at Michael, just keeps her eyes fixed on the blank expanse of wall in front of her. "Will it hurt them? That thing that they think is me."

"That depends, really. I suppose if the mood takes it, it will." Michael moves between her and the wall, and she stares at the inhuman curve of its many legs. "Right now, I think it's having too much fun."

"If you won't help me, will you at least help them? I don't want them hurt."

"You humans and your selflessness." It clucks its tongue and walks away, footsteps grating against the floor. "It's so tedious."

"I know you don't care about them." She looks at the place where its face should be. "But isn't it more entertaining if you don't let that thing get its way? That's what you want, isn't it? To be entertained."

"Not quite."

"Then what do you want from us?"

"You'll just have to wait and see, won't you?" It looks amused. "Not that you have any other options."

\--

"You look terrible." She speaks first because Jon doesn't seem capable. There's something fragile about the way he looks at her, and she's afraid he might break if she lets him stare too long.

He doesn't say the name that used to belong to her, but she can hear the slight pause where it should have been. "Your face."

She reaches up and touches one of her cheeks, surprised at the feel of her own skin. "Is something wrong with it?"

"No, nothing's wrong with it." Jon laughs, and she wonders if he's not already broken. "It's exactly the way I should have remembered it."

"I can't, you know."

"Can't what?"

"Remember it." She drops her hand and frowns, already finding it hard to recall the shape of her own flesh. "I'm not dead, you know."

"I can see that." Jon looks like he might reach out, but he puts his hands on his knees and looks away instead. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I don't think I can help you." He clears his throat, still staring at the far wall. "I don't think I can help anyone."

"You always were a bit dramatic," she says and stands, moves to sit on the floor beside him. She can feel his sadness through the place where their elbows touch.

Jon laughs again, and turns his head to look at her. "You're probably right."

"Of course I am."

He says that name that doesn't belong to her anymore. It's a relief to know that he can, even if she'll never be able to hear it. "I never wanted this to happen."

"I know you didn't." 

"I don't want to lose anyone else," he says and she reaches out to lay her hand over his. There's more that they could say, but neither of them speak again.

It takes her a long time to notice that he's gone.

\--

There's a door in the middle of the room. It takes her a moment to realize; she's grown so accustomed to the unending sameness of this place that her mind doesn't know how to process the change.

Michael is beside it, running one sharp finger along its edge with a soft, questioning hum. "Well, this is interesting, isn't it?"

"Is it yours?" She stands slowly, carefully, her forgotten limbs protesting the sudden movement. She wonders what Michael sees when it looks at her, if she looks as wrong to its eyes as it does to hers.

"I meant it when I said I couldn't create a door that would lead you out of here." Its smile is not a nice thing, but she steps closer and reaches for the handle anyway.

The metal is cool beneath her fingers, and it seems so odd, like it's too normal a detail for a place like this. "Do you know where it goes?"

"I suppose there's only one way to find out."

"Right, then." She curls her hand around the door handle and gives Michael one last look. "I suppose I should tell you goodbye."

Michael smiles and bends its many limbs in a mock-bow, gesturing her forward with a flourish of one sharp-fingered hand. 

As the door swings shut behind her, she hears Michael say, "We'll see you soon, Sasha."


End file.
